


Baby Oleanders

by Wilford Brimley (Hedgehog_Oatmeal)



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Also a trigger for transphobia, M/M, Mpreg, Trans!Sonic, this is actually a depressing mpreg fic so, triggers for like child death and some other pregnancy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:58:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgehog_Oatmeal/pseuds/Wilford%20Brimley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm trying to write weird stuff for some reason and I really never see like Mpreg fics ever tackle stuff like this. So I guess I might be the first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Oleanders

I swelled up like a whale dying from inside the sea. Hearts kept beating inside me and I didn't know at all where they came from. Not at this moment. Clocks breathed inside me. The ticking nagged at me. I saw baby blue, and nothing more, and it was all I cared to see.

Plums were presented to me delicately. I ate them, not knowing what they were. The seeds to my hearts inside me. It was hard to stand them screaming inside me, and I knew He wanted out, and it was my duty to breathe life into anything that developed. At times, the halls and wards appeared distant and convoluted and not at all realistic, but nothing was real to me anymore. I had a child inside, his heart beating, wanting out, but they claimed there was no logical reason why this child had to be. Mothers weren't allowed to deny life to something inside of them because it was life and women weren't allowed to control anything that went on inside them. I was a guy, and I had control, but this heart couldn't be here because I was living proof that we could decide what we wanted for ourselves, and in the end, God was only a guide and a bystander.

Breathing was like I had to struggle from a plastic bag. One made with small holes, as if this serial killer called evolution and progress was laughing at me and seeing how long I could survive breathing in and out, letting everything that lived in me out, in and out. Needles crammed into me like mosquitos, their salty tongues tasting the sweet blood I had for dinner. 

I was giving life, yet my life was being drained away. It was the sacrifice I had to face in the end. Mosquitoes swarmed my body and they wanted to know everything about the baby. The hearts beat faster. I ate another sugar-coated plum, rich with black blood. Shadow watched, but I couldn't remember if, at all, he said anything. I was hurt, yet I wasn't, if that makes sense. Physical pain didn't exist where I was, in this space and transcendence. There was psychic pain, emotional pain, of what would happen to the child, and the insects were like razors to me, blood sinking further, drained, the nurses who served me, gave me pastel pills, dancing like ballerinas, green liquid mollifying my tongue, becoming a black mouth that had no tongue but fangs that were ultimately useless except to nibble and suck.

Time didn't exist anymore. I felt what the color white felt like, could even taste it with my teeth, could hear the sounds of these colors droning inside me. Hearts kept beating, and I was surprised that I was still alive. No one was here, not even me, but the dismal sound of awakening had alerted me.

These blankets felt like newborn snow, I said. Their words were soft and melted into the air, and crying still kept me somewhat into the realms of blue and white. Too much medication. Too much weakness. Shadow said it was alright. His tongue was fuzzy and like cotton. The baby was alright. What should we name the baby? I lulled to the indecipherable blob of my child and believed the only name that would suit him was Mochi. Mochi like the delicious snowy rice balls I had back at Chung-Nan. Shadow didn't say anything. But my boy was like a mochi. I wasn't sure how, my fur being blue and Shadow's being a dense black, but Mochi was almost completely white, and I could sense sweetness inside of him. A strawberry sweet filling.

It's been so long since I had life swelling inside me. I thought such a thing would've never happened, at least when I was small, a different identity, when I wasn't sure at all if anything would come out the way I truly planned it. The small body I shared with the other self never felt complete. Cracks resided on the surface, and no one understood that when my mother pushed the silken and shrouded dolls towards me, I didn't want to be a mother, but a father. Over the years, that skin was soon shed. I crystallized into something I'm still trying to understand, as Mochi lay flat against my chests, wanting me to see him truly with my undiluted eyes. I was still under the throes of the green sea the ballerinas given me. Shadow told me to rest, watching the clock that nagged against me again. Let Mochi rest, and I'll take care of everything from here. Shadow could do everything that needed to be done swiftly and confidently, with little use of sleep and any intermittent pauses for food. Everything kept undulating against me, smelling the sunshine wafting from my windows, dust collecting on my TV set and CD players like a group of moths, draining every last grain of sunshine that came to this room.

My red fuzzy tongue still tasted the bittersweet liquor of relaxation and dissociation. No information was given about the elixir that promised me to die only temporarily. This silver spoon appeared in front of me, and I swallowed it. It tasted like sugar and acid, but it was as if I dissolved away, from the realization that I had a baby and they knew, truly, that I was a male with a female's body. Shadow was apparently my partner in crime in having this child. From the looks of these paper doll's eyes, there might've been shame, guilt, despair that such a thing could happen. It was possible I hallucinated that these snow white ballerinas were only the kind angels of mercy and death. But I wanted Mochi. I wanted Mochi to be here, and it was why I went through this in the first place. Shadow said he at least wanted a child to still spend time with if I ever faded away. The word I was thinking of wasn't utterable or even visible in my head. I continued to gaze at the sun. Imagining the single strands of quills that became loose when I was panicking about giving birth frying in this sun and listlessly floating away to a different place, I wasn't sure why but I relaxed. Sleeping was easier, but my body still felt heavy and cumbersome upon waking up.

Silence pervaded here. Mochi was asleep, and maybe Shadow was away to get things for the baby while I was gone. I predicted he wouldn't be gone long, yet these distant numbers and ticks and faces kept booming in my heart, telling me time was living and dying, slowly.

When I entered the kitchen, it felt dead and sullen. A sorrowful blue color was painted long ago, and there was a single egg held aloft on a small centerpiece on the table. I wasn't sure how the egg had been planted, unless Shadow was making himself a hardboiled egg and forgot what he was doing. White, clean, unbroken, glittering. It was eerie in here, and for a moment, I thought a face was painted on it, the eggshells scratched with warnings and secrets, but I imagined there was no reason why I would be here when Mochi had to be watched; attended to. Baby monitors were silent, and there was no snuffling or sighing or snoring or crying. Sounds that would break me, quietly, if I heard anything at all that could mean Mochi was suffering.

I didn't want to be a mother I explained to her. I wanted to be a father. Everything felt better when you were a guy. If I was a girl, I wouldn't be okay and if anything I knew I would be pushed around like my mother was. Time was her essence and her enemy. Age crept up in her every pore. I last saw her as a wilting skeleton, a drained hydrangea. When I sat long enough in this still quiet, I believed I could hear her apologizing to me for what she allowed to happen. I forgave her, every time, but the masculine footsteps of those who consumed her while she was still alive breathed inside my head. I came back to the image of the needles that were like mosquitoes, using their hummingbird masks to taste everything inside my mother while she still had the sun inside her, and they would throw her pistils and petals to the floor. There was nothing I could do in the end. Maybe I was fortunate that these hummingbird masked men never noticed I existed and breathed in the same air as them, but at the same time it offended me that they believed I wasn't the same type of being as they.

I kept thinking of the past while I was fully aware of clocks never being able to turn back. When I was a child, I turned back a digital clock to 2003, before I was born, so I wouldn't witness my mother being hurt. Of course, nothing happened, and I knew nothing would happen, but I wished with disdain that I could come back in her mouth and through her throat and never experience these feelings I felt. When I was alone, the time inside my head kept running backwards to the point where everything felt too real to me. This pen I hooked onto my fingers was fixated on my tongue and I smoked even if there was no nicotine inside. I quit smoking too long ago, but the past kept coming back and I missed it and hated it at the same time.

Mochi was safe inside his pink blanket. His breathings were quiet, heartbeats were subtle. It had only been a day and he was already a heavy sleeper. His fat cheeks kept puffing up when he took in gulps of air, and his stomach was rotund like mine. I hoped he would continue sleeping through the night, as if the sweet pink strawberries inside him were too heavy for him to carry for now. Odors of birth and baby powder and innocence entered my nostrils and I welcomed these scents, yet inside me I was empty. There was something about my son that felt he truly didn't belong to me.

That little blue hedgehog girl who tried to play with these spaghetti-haired dolls just to blend in with everyone else, did she want this child to be hers and not this other self that came forth from the screams of her mother? Mother had to be proud of me, she whispered. She wanted someone after me so she knows our pain in the future. A weird reason I said, as pain just deserved to be forgotten in the end, but there was still blood from my mother's nectar. The pistils she distended to every man she met so she could be happy.

Shadow arrived, carrying formula and plastic bottles, along with various pastel-colored bric-a-bracs for Mochi to enjoy while he was still small and new. He already developed a bond with Shadow, his ghostly fingers being touched by something that was like flowery sap, dripping and drooling on him. We made Mochi's room as comfortable and nonthreatening as possible. It was white.

Shadow cooked, but I kept staring at the glistening egg on the counter. My partner claimed there was nothing there other than the occasional chili dog stains he hadn't sopped up yet, but maybe this egg was smiling at me with blue eyes that seemed benevolent. The clock's heart pattered underneath my feet and I felt the toxicity of neurosis coveting me. Time for bed, he said. I slept what seemed was too long ago, yet not long enough. Night and gummy stars blanketed my eyes and I didn't know at all of what would happen tomorrow. After believing this egg was smiling good fortune on me, I truly wasn't any more lucky than my mother, or my father who left cause he couldn't stand the pain of anyone's misfortune and our lack of invisibility from the world. We discussed being a secluded family from those who wished to hurt us with both weapons and sharp cyanide words, but father left without us. I didn't care to hear of his whereabouts.

We waited in the stillness, the sharp translucent blade of the sun. Nothing was heard, nothing was seen, at least to me. There was more medication waiting for me by the counter, with the shining, discolored egg. It looked slightly blue and bruised.

Mochi woke up with a startled cry. I wanted to care for him, but Shadow told me to stay in this stillness, as the medication was still in effect. Waves kept bumping into me and I felt the clocks were melting and oozing away, a nuclear bomb planted in the living room where Mochi was. He had the baby. Not me. I was the father, yet he said he'll take care of it. There was sickness in these green vials, but I swallowed and drank and licked and suckled, cause there was nothing else. In the distance, Mochi ceased crying. Maybe the sun was not only peeling the rotted wood by the woodens, the clocks and canvasses, but noise and heartbeats and ticks too.

Those beaten fingers of mine curved again, wanting something to hold. A cigarette. A baby. A baby while smoking a cigarette. How much of time was slipping by while I stood here, drinking pills and drinking this beer I found in the fridge? How much of myself was I slowly losing?

There was a child by the name of Sunny. I remembered her too clearly. How bright she was, how sad and dark she soon became. The memories were monotonous and kept repeating. Shadow noticed I was on edge and said I should go to my room, alone, for a little while. Classical music came through the CD player speakers from the living room. Every crescendo filtered through years of dust and decay.

There was no memory of falling asleep on the bed, but here I was, listening to Hadyn while Shadow tended to Mochi, my son that as each second and minute slipped by from my crevices, was no longer mine, but to the small girl I once was, or so I believed. No need to be psychoanalyzed I told myself. This little girl didn't exist anymore and there was no reason to obsess about the things that could've happened. Yet being a metaphorical mother was a strange feeling and as the clocks kept syncopating their chimes and the blood through their metal veins, Mochi didn't feel like he was mine. Not his. But hers. The woman I once was and killed because she no longer fit in my view of society.

Shadow's face felt like a mask to me, hiding his disapproval, his realization that having a child might've been a bad idea. It wasn't cause of my slow descent to fantasy and schizoid behaviors, but rather that Mochi was beginning to show signs of illness. The nurses, those little shrouded ballerina's should've told us he claimed, that little sweet strawberry Mochi was a little undeveloped. What humans in this civilization called “preemies.” The very word itself made me feel sick and undeveloped as well. Mochi was too small and struggled drinking the milk, his tongue too short to lacerate the nipple and to devour and make simple demands. When I woke up that humid, black night, Mochi sounded as if he could breathe fine and wasn't at all afraid to breathe in the air that was graced and touched by the sun.

We called for help. I explained that Mochi was mine and I wanted him safe. Their words sounded poisonous, as if they no longer wanted me to be what I felt was safer and comfortable for me, Acid seeped through the phone and Shadow crushed it until I could see the organs and veins that allowed us to speak to those who felt we came from another world, from the depths of Hell.

Bills came back the next day. Too much money was demanded, like they demanded for the surgery and hormones, refusing to help this plight my mother once was in.  
Mochi was mine. I want him safe. This little strawberry snowball couldn't get scratched and harmed and devoured by those who were too greedy to care. Surrounded by clocks that melted and dripped to my shoes, nothing was real anymore. The egg that sat on the counter was yellow and smelly. No one knows why it was there, but it stayed there, and time kept rotting away and I felt my son slipping away. There were some who did want to help. We asked Knuckles, his age obviously sagging through his skin and eyes. Many things had to be repeated for him to hear our cries, but soon, he did hear, and offered to help. We felt the only way Mochi could be saved was using a sparse amount of Chaos energy, along with the Master Emerald. I helped the humans, but when they found out about Sunny, the girl who left one day to protect herself, they left too. Sonic, the boy who came to protect everything Sunny left behind, had to suffer too.

I didn't want Mochi to suffer either. Shadow couldn't suffer along with me. As each preparation and plan was devised and broiled, I felt like I was dying. There were more pills by the counter. The clocks no longer didn't have the time, but reflections of the past. Sunny wasn't here, and I was trying to save her from everything I said. They wanted her, they bled and mouthed.

White blinded my vision when I took another dose. Shadow revealed to me that the pills I was taking were truly estrogen pills and the nurses wanted me back to the self that needed to hide for the sake of her family. At this point, I didn't care and kept taking them. There were pinks, there were blues, and there were whites, and I wished I was completely blind so I didn't have to see the ugliness and misery anymore. Mochi was suffering, and he was mine, and soon, I bled my energy to him, but nothing could be done. The Voice had said it had to be, and Mochi was no longer mine, and Mochi was no longer suffering.

White was the color of absence, of something missing. The meaning was lost through subtraction and abstraction. Shadow consoled me, but my mouth was white, my words were white, nothing was said and done. The ceiling knew only of what I truly felt. It was white, and so was the sun, and so was the dirt that the sun tried to remove through light. Mochi's room was white. And so was Mochi's bed. And Mochi was a soft pale white too, like a cute little rice cake.

I stared at the oleanders in the front yard. Mother liked oleanders. There was no egg with a smirking face on my counter, but a heavenly oleander that reminded me of the nurses who wore white shriveled gowns stolen from those who suffered from what the humans had called “the Holocaust”. The clocks proved to me that I was pale and gaunt like the cigarettes I swore off for the rest of my life when I became who I was. I tipped the end of the cigarette in the sweet nectar and hemlock of the battered ghostly women outside. Soon, I drowned in the same sea my mother succumbed to. I was Sunny, I was Sonic, I was Mochi's father, I was Mochi's mother, I am nothing, I am nobody.


End file.
